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bluefirewrites · 3 years

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'A Floral Fixation’- Juke Florist AU Part 2

Continuation of my last post about Flower Delivery Girl!Julie where she works at her family's flower shop, The Petal Pushers, and ends up making regular deliveries to Luke.

Note the title is silly. Does not allude to anything else :)

Julie has no clue how one favor for a friend could lead to all of this.

Ever since her brief stint as a singing telegram as well delivery girl, she’s now playing this... game? Yeah, game is the appropriate word for it. This ‘game’ with Luke Patterson.

And it would go like this:

There would be a delivery for Luke Patterson, Julie would drop it off, wondering why yet another flower arrangement is being delivered to a 17 year old boy on what seems to be on a regular basis, he offers her a flower, she declines, then leaves.

Julie's only the messenger, she doesn't see who keeps ordering them for Luke or if Luke's ordering these for someone. She doesn't check the card.

Or she would if there is one. There would usually be a card with each order. Tía nowadays just hands over the flowers with a telling arch of her brows and Julie instantly knows she's pedaling those to Sunset Curve's garage.

But she’s convinced that it really is Luke calling in and making the orders because every delivery she makes to him is always different and every time she would give it to him, he would always ask if they were her favorites.

Julie found the whole thing amusing, toying with him. But she had made numerous attempts in the past to get him to stop. She couldn’t imagine what kind of strain this would have on his wallet (flowers ain’t cheap), and she didn’t plan to string him on like that. It wasn’t fair.

But Luke Patterson is determined.

Why? No clue. By her deeming it a ‘game’ implies that there is a winner. Some sort of prize when they reach the end.

Whenever that is.

Maybe she doesn’t want it to end so soon. Not when these deliveries may be an excuse to go see him after school. She doesn’t stick around though. She is on the clock after all.

In the meantime, she’s good to play. And when Luke Patterson manages to guess her favorite flower (there’s no chance), she will accept it when offered to her.

So far, it’s been sunflowers, hydrangeas, chrysanthemums, and many other kinds of flowers.

This time, as she pedals up to the garage, it's zinnias in her basket.

And this time, the rest of the band is there.

Julie knocks on the door again and Luke's the first one to reach her. He leans against the entryway, taking the bouquet from her, picking one flower, and tilting it in her direction- the usual dance.

"Zinnias. Tell me that I'm right,"

"Hmm..." she makes the move to take it and Luke brightens...

Only for her hand to land on his forearm instead, where she gives him a couple of pitying pats.

"Nice try," she smirks, swiftly turning on her heel and walking back to her bike.

She could hear Alex and Reggie jeer at Luke's dumbfounded expression, 'ooooh'-ing at her trick.

Luke, after shooting his friends a glare and tossing the bouquet at them, he catches up to her as she mounts her bike.

"I'm getting close, aren't I?"

"What makes you think that?" She ensures the rest of her deliveries are secure in the back and front, pretending not to know what he's talking about.

"You're not a dainty flower girl. I know that for sure. That's not who you are."

Julie squints at him, "We haven't started talking until now. How can you say that 'know' me?"

"I heard you sing," Luke says. That makes her bristle slightly. "Trust me. I know everything I need to know about you from that. And with that powerhouse of a voice? No way you'd be a daisy or a daffodil."

Julie tries not to smile, not wanting to give any indication that he was heading in the right direction. The compliment, however delivered in his own Luke way, nearly makes her grin. Yet, it’s the singing part that reminds her way she’s been keeping the boy at arm’s reach and not outright telling him her favorite.

She and music have a complicated relationship at the moment. Her singing the first time she was here had been a one off. If Luke’s expecting her to belt out songs constantly and be as passionate about music as he is, then he’ll be sorely disappointed.

And Julie’s done disappointing people. She’d rather do something new. Even though a really cute guy is humoring her with these antics.

“You know there’s over 300,000 species of flowers?”

“352,000″

Julie raises an eyebrow.

“I research,” he proclaims proudly, rocking on his heels.

Wow, he’s really pushing this.

“What are you getting out of this, Luke?”

“Maybe I’m just very interested in... flowers?”

“Uh-huh,” Julie purses her lips, reading between the lines, “Flowers. Right.”

“And I’m gonna continue to feed that interest... as long as it takes,”

“Or as long as your allowance can take it. Do you even have a job?”

“I work at the diner. But,” he sidles up to her, “If you’re so concerned about my funds, then maybe give me a hint? This can all be over quicker if you’re so eager to get rid of me.”

The shit-eating grin on his face makes her roll her eyes. This boy...

"I guess..." Julie debates internally, "I guess you can cross small flowers off," she ends up admitting.

"Ha!" he jumps, "I was right!”

“Still not the right flower though,” she reminds him.

“Nah that's a victory for today and I'll take it,"

She shakes her head at him, "You’re ridiculous,"

“See you next week then?”

"Oh my god, Julie goes ahead and embarks on her bike, “More business for us, then. Be seeing you, Patterson.”

She rides down the street is about to turn the corner when she hears faint yelling from behind her.

"Your voice does sell more flowers!"

Stopping by the neighbors yard and looks back, "What?”

It’s Luke, standing in the driveway still. He cups his hands and shouts, “I was right!”

“What?” she answers back.

Now that does it. And she breaks out into a laugh, throwing her head back as she does. Luke Patterson- what a clown.

Julie promptly bikes away, and when she returns to the store, Tía clocks her smile immediately and asks about their favorite customer.

“An idiot, as always,” Julie reports back.

A cute idiot.

Tía hums something Julie couldn’t comprehend. Then she returns to pruning the flowers. Julie helps her.

“Well... whoever that young man is. He must have a really special girl in his life. To be ordering this many flowers.”

“Yeah... I guess,” Julie agrees, absentmindedly, focusing more on the task at hand.

“And I hope that girl knows just how special she is too,”

“Yeah- wait. Huh?”

Julie doesn’t get anymore out of her aunt that day, just knowing glances as if she’s meant to be in on this inside joke, but she isn’t.

Oh well.

And when she spots Luke the next day at school, he breezes past her, smiling, hints of floral scents radiating from his person. Much like how the shop would smell.

“Mornin’, Flower Girl,” he greets, tipping an imaginary hat her way.

“Morning, Diner Boy,” she shoots back, taking satisfaction from how thrown off Luke looks by her response.

He recovers and shoots her a wink, “Touchè”

Hey! If he knew what her job was, then she should too. And use it to her advantage. Maybe go to his work and tease him there, pester him about his favorite order, maybe and not be a passive player in this game they have.

Now wouldn’t that be a fun idea...

Tagging: @blush-and-books @lydias--stiles @thedeathdeelers @ruzek-halstead @pink-flame, @ourstarscollided, @nottheleastbrave, @echocharm17618 @smolfangirl @garc-i-a @simp-for-julie-molina @teenagepeanutbird @ifitsallyoudo @fandomscraziness22 @writerownstory @heademptynothoughts @writeineveryemptyspace

#julie and the phantoms #jatp #happy anniversary!#jatp anniversary #juke #jatp drabble #flower delivery girl! Julie #mention of Diner!Luke #julie x luke #luke x julie

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gohyuck · 4 years

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part 1 is out now! here

pairing: greaser!jeno lee x rich!reader; ft. brother!johnny

genre: greaser!au; runaways!au; criminal!au; angst/fluff/smut

word count: 2k

warnings: none

a/n: this is just a prologue (but you should still read it 😉) and it provides some context for the events of the main story... part of the criminal collaboration by @neovisioned

let me know if you want to be on the taglist!

April 13th, 1956

There’s a couple of lilies in a transparent vase, half filled up (half emptied out? you ponder this in an attempt to keep your mind off of what is right in front of you) with water that likely hasn’t been changed since before the weekend. Jojo, the class pet, runs on his wheel, keeping a surprisingly steady pace for a hamster. He pays no mind to his surroundings. What it must be like - to be completely and utterly unperturbed and unaffected by those around him. Maybe you’ll be reborn as a hamster in your next life. A quick glance (your fourth in maybe three minutes) around the tense room at the rest of your classmates and at the teacher leaves you hoping.

The clock’s ticking is louder than usual - though that may just be your mind playing tricks on you - and the room seems to be holding its breath as a singular entity rather than a whole composed of twenty-three individuals (one of whom is the teacher himself), or parts, within it. The whole situation is like a suspenseful movie scene - you know something big is going to happen, and soon - it’s just that none of you have any idea of what it’ll actually be. All eyes are focused on one person - a person who’s up on his feet with a previously pristine stationary-based letter crumpled between his fingers and who is staring holes through the teacher up front, who just so happens to be the sorry individual who had handed him said letter. The teacher, a man whose knuckles have more hair than his head, is trying his best to stare back. He can’t quite match the student’s gaze.

You glance down at your desk at the wrong moment. Before you can even register that anyone has moved, the distinct sound of a textbook hitting the floor startles you. A chair follows it. Before you can look up, the classroom door shuts with a resounding bang. The crumpled up letter is on the floor by the door. Mr. Simmons, in all his balding, middle-aged, beginnings-of-a-beer-belly glory, stands in front of the chalkboard, mouth open in a comically wide look of shock.

After what has to be more than just mere minutes, your English teacher decides that the lesson must go on, and in the midst of telling the class (now with twenty one students and one teacher) more about Shakespeare’s specific usage of language in The Taming of The Shrew, he subconsciously wipes his chalky hands on the front of his pressed khakis. You wince. That’ll be hell to wash. A girl behind you snickers behind her hand to the boy beside her that it looks like Simmons does cocaine. Somebody wonders aloud, though in a quiet enough whisper that Simmons himself can’t hear, who would sell a man like your English teacher coke.

A smart-mouthed class-clown type in the back heaves a cough that sounds oddly like “Jeno Lee”. laughter ripples through twenty seniors. you don’t join in.

Jeno Lee.

You hadn’t even caught sight of his scuffed black Chuck Taylors or the back of his hand-me-down leather jacket when he’d stormed from the room. There was no glint of his pocketknife, either. You’ve come to see all three as hallmarks of his persona.

There’s a lingering smell of smoke in the air, though. His seat, after all, is only two over from yours to your right, and you’ve always been unlucky with inhaling his secondhand smoke. Rumor has it that he smokes two packs a day.

Somehow you doubt that, though.

Maybe you’re naive, but, after all, nobody with a smile like that can plow through 40 cigarettes in 24 hours.

♕ ♕ ♕

April 16, 1956

That's the last class you ever have with jeno. His desk is noticeably empty the next day, and the next, and the next after that until your teacher finally - though with an air of relief you find at least mildly despicable - lets his remaining students know that Jeno will no longer be attending your high school, or any high school at all. You don’t pretend to understand - there’s only about four weeks left until you’re all set to graduate, anyways - but you also don’t pretend to be surprised.

The recycling bin hasn’t been emptied for days. In what’s far from your proudest moment, you stay after class - waiting until Simmons himself walks out to check on what sounds like a hallway fight between two boys - to dig through it, trying to hide your triumphant smile from your own self when you find the crumpled paper Jeno had discarded on his last day here. It had very obviously made him angry, angry enough to drop out, and the wonder of what might be in it is killing you.

After all, he’d been good eye-candy in class, at the very least. You kind of miss him being there, even if you’re the only one who does. You squint, trying to make out what the ink on the paper says.

It’s a letter - specifically it’s a letter from the Neo Institute of Technology, easily one of the most difficult universities to get into in your state. Your fingers twitch as you battle internally over whether to open it or not - rejection is hard to deal with, even if it isn’t your own. Your school sends hardly two or three people to NeoTech per year, and there’s no way someone like Jeno could’ve gotten in. Eventually, your curiosity wins over, though not before Simmons walks back into the room and you find yourself telling him that you’d tripped and fallen near the recycling, all while hiding Jeno’s letter behind your back.

♕ ♕ ♕

Your brother, home from college for the weekend, is lying languidly across the couch, hand in a bag of chips when you walk in through the front door. You aren’t surprised - you’d seen his prized red Chevy Bel Air convertible parked out front when you’d stopped to pick up the mail. You realize fairly quickly that he’s the only one home - your mother must be at a book club meeting, and your father is still at his 9 to 5. it’s just you and the devil himself.

Johnny raises one chip-dust covered hand in greeting before turning back to whatever old western rerun is playing on the TV. For your part, you pay him no mind, dropping the mail - some bills, a... magazine, a reminder card from the dentist - on the kitchen counter while shouldering your backpack to keep it from falling.

“Hey, John?” You finally call, already halfway up the stairs.

He grunts in response, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. You consider not telling him for a moment, but then realize that you really don’t want to witness the screaming match your parents will have with him if they get to it before your brother does.

It, of course, being his not-so-guilty pleasure.

“This month’s Playboy came in. it’s on the counter.” You finally say, though not before throwing him as disgusted a look as you can muster once you see the way your brother perks up immediately. Pig. He drops the chip bag onto the coffee table, scattering bits and pieces of food across it. You don’t hold out hope for him to clean it up. You also don’t wait around to watch him grab his magazine, instead making your way up the stairs and into your room, finally free to be truly alone for the first time all day.

You shut the door, making sure it’s locked properly, before dropping your backpack on the floor and jumping backwards, bouncing once, onto your bed. The letter’s been in your hand since you’d found it, and you can’t help but feel mildly excited - and also, of course, just a little bad - as you smooth it out in your lap against your plaid skirt. Slowly, very slowly, you pull it open, bracing yourself for what you know you’ll see.

Dear Mr. Jeno Lee,

Once again, on the behalf of the admissions board at NeoTech, I extend a hearty congratulations to you for being accepted as a member of the class of 1961. The School of Engineering looks forward to witnessing your growth over the next four years, and we know that, upon your graduation, you will make us proud as an alumnus. However-

You pause in your reading, blinking rapidly in mild disbelief. Jeno - Jeno Lee, known for being a greaser and a hooligan, a threat and a terror - had gotten into NeoTech? The realization shakes you, causing you to blow air out through your lips before you continue reading.

However, we find that we will have to rescind your full scholarship. I understand that you may find it difficult to pay tuition, but there just seems to be nothing we can do: we request a disciplinary record for each student, and yours is riddled with fights and altercations with both students and teachers, especially one Mr. Richard Simmons. Typically, this would be grounds for rescission, but considering how stellar your grades and essays are, we will allow you a probationary semester.

You will still have to pay your tuition in its entirety. The first semester payment of $1,200 is due by Friday, April 20, 1956. If you cannot pay it, I’m afraid that we will be unable to take you on for the fall semester.

Best regards and congratulations once again,

Sooman Lee, Neo Institute of Technology President and Board Chairman

Although you’re still surprised at him having gotten in - internalized prejudice, your brain whispers to you, and you hate that it’s right - your heart twists as you read the letter over and over again. $1,200 is steep for a college, and you know that there’s no way in hell Jeno can ever fork that up. Of course, you realize, heaving a heavy, heavy sigh as you do, he no longer can guarantee getting a high school diploma anyways. His rescission from NeoTech must be on its way to his mailbox already.

Before you can think too deeply into Jeno Lee and his now-precarious future, a loud knock interrupts you, causing you to swiftly slide the letter underneath your bed. You never know if Johnny’s going to try and pick the lock on your bedroom door or not, though you’re glad to see that he stops short of doing so this time.

“What?” You ask, your tone as annoyed as possible.

“Don’t ‘what?’ me, shithead,” Your brother responds, throwing your tone of voice right back at you. “Mom’s back, wants your help with dinner.”

“Why can’t you help for once, you ass?” You snark, sliding off of your bed regardless. The door swings open just as you unlock it, revealing your brother smirking down at you in a way that makes you want to right hook him directly in the face.

“Men aren’t made for the kitchen.” Is all he says, stepping back so you can get out. Before you can reprimand him, threatening to kick his patronizing and patriarchal ass, Johnny disappears into his own bedroom, slamming the door shut.

“(Name)?” Your mother calls, sounding displeased at having to wait for you. You groan, pulling your own bedroom door shut before bounding down the stairs. As rock-and-roll music starts pouring out of Johnny’s room, no doubt courtesy of the radio he’d gotten as a high school graduation gift, and as your mother thrusts a rolling pin into your hands while grumbling about not raising you right, all thoughts of Jeno are pushed out of your mind.

Dust starts to settle on the letter beneath your bed.

It’s no matter, though: though you believe it might very well be the last thing connecting you to the Jeno Lee, fate has other plans for you. Soon enough, the surface level image of who Jeno is will no longer exist to you, replaced by your own truer perceptions.

Of course, there’s a series of things that have to happen before that.

It all goes to shit on May 25th, 1957.

#fool's gold #nct-writers #neowritingsnet #kwritersworldnet #thekpopnetwork #jeno #jeno angst #jeno fluff #jeno smut #nct #nct dream #nct 127 #nct dream smut #nct dream fluff #nct dream angst #nct 127 fluff #nct 127 smut #nct 127 angst #prologue

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disoriented-dice · 3 years

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⚄ Open Rp Starter ⚄

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The quiet was only constantly interrupted by the ticking of the clock that hung on Black Clown’s wall.

Pesky as it may have been, it was not so unfamiliar as to disrupt Ryuji’s sense of peace. He’d seated himself near the counter, placing his legs on top of it and hanging his head back in comfort, taking in the calmness of it all.

Those few minutes before the shop was set to open were both hell and heaven to him.

Hell because he’d have to wait for something inevitable to take place. That’s not to say that he didn't like waiting in general. In fact, that wasn’t the case at all. The black-haired male found himself to be quite patient, and he wasn’t fully wrong. However, in that specific case, he couldn't help but feel like rushing things. Simply because he knew the shop would open at that exact time, like it always did. He knew what was going to happen, and had the power to make it happen earlier. So why not do it now?

Well, he knew why, it just still pissed him off. If he were to open the shop earlier than usual, even for a single day, it would automatically be expected of him to open it at that very time for all eternity—or ‘till he died at least. His regulars, at least the annoying chunk of them, would go as far as to bash him for it. If you can open it early once, then you can open it early forever! That was the logic he assumed certain customers would use against him, as they had before. And although he could deal with them quite swiftly, he not exactly willing to do it over and over again. Things get boring when you do them repetitively.

And Ryuji? He wasn't exactly very fond of boredom.

Which was sort of ironic, considering the reason these few minutes happened to be heavenly to him, was the fact that he was allowed some peace and quiet.

A serene silence. A brief one. It was perfect: Not so long as to bore him, and not so short as to be insufficient. He liked that, and made sure to spend it wisely. Clearing the noises in his head, preparing himself for the external ones to come.

Speaking of which. It was about time for him to open the Black Clown up. 8 am sharp.

He pulled his legs off the counter, letting the chair fall into place as he stood up. Stretching his arms, Ryuji let out out a “Let’s do this...Again.” before making his way to the door, glancing through the glass window at the crowd of customers that hadn’t failed to form itself around the Black Clown once more.

With a familiar smirk drawing itself on his face, he unlocked the door, reuniting with the counter as the customers found their way in.

Quietly, Ryuji observed each customer as they did their thing, wishing for something interesting to happen, or for someone interesting to show up and spare his eyes from the blandness of the present folk.

#🎲#rp starter #ygo rp #yugioh rp

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beauty-proof · 5 years

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Socked

The TV still hummed in the background, the movie long over. She stirred awake, shifting her head against the bony shoulder it had been resting on. The scent of soap and cigarettes filled her nostrils. Arthur’s smell.

The arm wrapped around her shoulder tightened a bit, as if he’d sensed in his sleep that she was about to leave. Once she’d seen the clock it had taken every bit of control not to jump up and run out the door. It was three full hours past her curfew and she prayed that both her mother and baby brother were sleeping soundly. Somewhat reluctantly, she eased out from underneath his arm, careful not to wake him. She crept to the door and looked back before she closed it behind her. He was sleeping peacefully on the couch. His brown waves, usually pushed back behind his ears, hung about his face.

It was good to see him rest. In the few months she’d known him, he always looked so gaunt and exhausted. Recently, his mother had been placed in a home, and he wasn’t dealing with it well. He’d gone from being thin to looking like a living specter.

She still felt so bad about his mother. She’d grown up seeing Mrs. Fleck around the building, stopping by her apartment every Halloween while trick-or-treating. At that point, Arthur had been mysteriously absent. She knew why.

When she’d told her mother she planned to go around their apartment building asking if anyone was willing to hire her to do some household chores, her mother had forbidden her from stopping to ask the Flecks. “That son of hers,” she’d said, “In and out of the psychiatric hospital. Worms in his brain.” He’d landed on his mother’s doorstep right as she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. Life wasn’t very fair to Mrs. Fleck.

- After she’d started working for them, Arthur had finally found a part-time job. Unfortunately, the commute was so long that he wouldn’t make it back home until after dark, which had been a bad time for his mother ever since the hallucinations had started. He’d offered her money to sit with his mother in the evenings when he was out.

The first time he’d arrived to relieve her of her duty, she’d giggled at the face paint he’d neglected to remove before returning home. “Did you ride all the way home like that?” she’d teased. “...Shit,” he’d run his hand down his face, smearing the clown makeup.

Not too long after, on a night when she was unable to sit with Mrs. Fleck, a neighbor had called 911 after hearing screaming coming from their apartment, followed by a crash. Now, the state wouldn’t release her back to Arthur and she’d been placed involuntarily in a home on the other side of Gotham. When she’d told Arthur that she’d overheard her parents saying that the landlord had raised the rent again, he’d admitted that he didn’t know how he was going to pay for the rent without his mother’s disability checks.

“We can always rob a bank,” she quipped, and he’d given her a strained smile.

Now, she tread quietly, cracking open the door to her family’s apartment. The coast seemed to be clear and she breathed a sigh of relief. The odds hadn't been in her favor.

Tip-toeing toward her room, she was startled nearly out of her skin by a low cough from the corner of the dark living room. Her father rose from the armchair, lumbering toward her in the dim light.

"Dad," she whispered, confused. "What're you still doing home?"

He came to a stop in front of her. "Waiting for you. Fuck have you been? Your mother asked me not to leave for work until you showed up."

"I was at Margaret's," she lied. "We fell asleep watching a movie. I'm sorry Dad."

"What's this?" He gestured toward her person and her heart skipped a beat. She realized she was still wearing the brown cardigan that Arthur had loaned her earlier that evening. They'd gone for a walk to the nearby park and she'd gotten chilly as they headed back to their building after sunset.

She swallowed. "It's from Goodwill."

He looked at her for a moment longer, eyes straying to the bottom hem of the sweater, which hung almost to her knees.

"Maybe go for something a little less shabby next time, okay?"

"Okay."

He squeezed her shoulder as he walked toward the door. "Night, kid."

She locked the door behind him and breathed another sigh of relief.

As she changed into her pajamas she briefly considered sleeping in the sweater, but decided it best to not be too indulgent. Instead, she buried her face in the fabric briefly and inhaled his scent one last time before discarding the garment in the hamper to be washed.

The next morning, she was woken earlier than usual by loud bickering from the living room.

"I don't give a fuck, Maria!" her father yelled over his shoulder as he burst through her bedroom door.

She bolted upright, still getting her bearings, her eyes blurry. Her vision came into focus to see her father standing in the doorway, red-faced, grasping the cardigan in one hand.

"Get up," he barked. "Put your shoes on."

"Dad, what?"

"Now."

She prayed this wasn't what she thought it was, but common sense told her what was about to happen.

Once he got hold of her pajama clad arm he all but dragged her down the stairs to the second floor of the building, heading swiftly to a familiar apartment door and rapping upon it with a force that might split the wood.

"Coming," a groggy voice called from the other side.

As Arthur cracked open the door, still wearing yesterday's clothes and looking half awake, her father immediately thrust the offending sweater into his hands.

"Just returning something of yours," he sneered.

"Oh. I -" Arthur started and opened the door further.

"Now you listen to me," her father cut him off and stepped into the taller man’s space.

"I don't know what kind of sicko you are, but I already told you once to stay the fuck away from my daughter -"

"Dad!" she protested, shocked.

Had he really known where she'd been during her routine absences from home? Had he really gone behind her back and approached Arthur to try and break their friendship? She was both embarrassed to find out that she was apparently not as sneaky as she'd thought and offended that her father hadn't thought she was adult enough to approach her about the situation.

"You know how old she is?" her father roared, pointing at her. An impulse flickered briefly in her mind; to grab his hand and twist it until it broke.

Arthur's eyes narrowed in a way she'd never seen before. He looked...scary. Scary wasn’t a word she'd ever associated with the wiry, mild-mannered man. Now, however, he looked like a cobra pulled back, considering when to strike.

"Yes. I do," Arthur replied evenly.

Her father huffed a couple more times. "If I ever catch you even looking at my daughter again, I'll kill you."

Arthur’s demeanor shifted, somehow, from tense to incredibly calm. His previously pursed lips melted into a lopsided smile. He took a step toward the shorter man.

"Look, I get what you’re saying. But if that's the first conclusion you jump to then, uh...maybe you’re the sicko."

He'd barely gotten the words out of his mouth before her father reached out and quickly socked him in the nose. Ignoring his daughter's horrified shout, he grabbed her roughly by the arm and dragged her back toward their apartment.

"You know how they keep track of people's clothes in the nut house, honey?" he asked as he steered her toward their door. "They write their names on the tags."

Oh.

Last night as she'd tossed the sweater into the hamper, she’d noticed "A. FLECK" written in dark marker on the tag inside its collar.

Fuming, she sat in her room, having refused breakfast.

Well, she thought. This fucking sucks.

Then, true to the form of a young person who's been forbidden from doing something, she set about planning how to do that which she shouldn't. She had to see Arthur again. And soon.

#arthur fleck #joker #joker 2019 #fanfic #mine #socked

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real-sen-unnie · 6 years

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You are a cinema

Wonho Oneshot

Word count: 1717

This was written by @torilasuper and edited by myself, which was fun to do. Hope you all enjoy!

It was finally December, and finals week had just concluded. A lot of your friends had gone back home, which meant they were all out of town.

Hoseok, who was a bubbly Kinesiology major and one of the good friends who you had met in your World Literature class, however, would still be in the city. He was a warm-hearted person and was kind to everyone, which is why you began to fall for him - not to mention that he was extremely good looking, which was always a bonus.

As you were binging on the usual reality trash that was on the television, your phone rang. You looked at the caller ID, as butterflies ran through your stomach and breathed in deeply before you answered the phone.

“Hello?” you said into the phone.

“Debt Collector,” Hoseok stated.

You rolled your eyes and smiled. He was such a clown and always jokingly used pick-up lines on you.

“Debt Collector? I’ve paid all my bills, sir, so I’m afraid you’re mistaken with your call.”

“You’re still in debt,” he replied, still in character.

“How? Alright Mr. Debt Collector. What do I owe you?” you mused as you lay down on your couch.

“My heart!” He said melodramatically into your ear.

Your breath hitched, and you sat back up, repeating what he had just said in your mind. What an absolute goof. He always used these cheesy, stupid pick-up lines on you and it drove you mad. Why he did, confused you ever so. A few of your friends who had witnessed your interactions with you were sold on the belief that he liked you. But you swore to them that he was just playing around because he had never stated it explicitly.

“I’m hanging up now,” you threatened, laughing at him.

“Wait!” he laughed back, his sounds like music to your ears. “Victoria! Victoria?”

You kept silent, holding your laughter and your phone away.

“I know you didn’t hang up!!!”

Silence lingered, until you heard his voice once more.

“...Did you?” he questioned.

“Yes!” you replied jokingly.

Hoseok laughed at your reply and began to shift the conversation in another direction.

“Well anyway, I’m really bored. My family went out of town last week and I have got nothing to do. Got any plans?” He asked you.

“Mmmmm, no,” you answered, curious as to what he wanted to do. “You got anything in mind?”

“Movies?” he asked.

“Sounds good,” you exclaimed, getting up to make your way to your bedroom.

“I’ll be there in 20!” he said before you heard the click of the phone, notifying you the call had ended.

You rapidly threw on your cute shirt with some blue, skinny fitted jeans paired with a pair of black vans and applied cute pink eye shadow that complimented your sweater. You glanced at the clock and saw you had a spare five minutes until his promised arrival time. You grabbed your brush, ran to the mirror and rapidly brushed your hair up and back to create a smooth, sleek ponytail.

“Hoseok, Hoseok, Hoseok...” you sighed as you pulled your hair through the hair tie. “I still can’t seem to figure you out.” With your mind running and your heard fluttering, you started pacing your room.

He was such a jokester and always liked to tease you. Admittedly, you had wondered if he had some sort of feelings of romantic affection for you but then you’d always dismiss it as overthinking. The doorbell rang, pulling you out of your thoughts. Once again, you glanced at the clock, which reaffirmed how punctual he always was.

You swiftly made your way downstairs and opened the door to see him standing at the door dressed in a black bomber jacket open with a black thermal underneath, white jeans and red leather Nike high tops. His black, silky hair was up in a slight pompadour and his skin looked radiant as ever.

The undercut he had made him even more handsome than he already was.

“Eyyyyyyyy,” he said announcing his arrival obnoxiously.

“Sorry no soliciting!” You joked as you closed the door on him, before opening the door a second later. The both of you laughing at the horrible joke. “Ready?”

“Sheesh. I guess, especially after that warm welcome!” He exclaimed.

“I know! But you still love me!” you proclaimed, eyes widening when you realised what you had accidentally let slip.

As you internally freaked out, you managed to pick up your bag from the floor and close the door behind you. You then proceeded to make your way over to his shiny, blue Mustang.

“That I do,” he muttered quietly as he followed you to his car.

That whole car ride was a wreck (no pun intended). You felt completely stupid for letting that out and were beating yourself up for potentially letting the cat out of the bag.

Potentially, maybe not, though. Right? People always tell each other they love them, right? Even when it’s to their super, hot friend, right? Things felt very awkward.

As if Hoseok could read your thoughts, he began to speak.

“Do you want music?” he asked as he started reaching towards the button the same time you did.

“I can put some on,” you said as you hit the button and both of your hands clashed.

“Watch where you’re goin’ son!” you jokingly snapped.

You noticed his cheeks become beat red as he fought the urge to giggle.

“I, uh... sorry,” he grinned widely, the eye smile of his beaming.

In a short matter of time you arrived at the movie theater. Hoseok parked the car and you both began to make your way to the cinema.

“I already got the tickets,” he said pulling them up on his phone.

“Oh! You didn’t have to do that!” You told him apologetically. “How much do I owe you?” You started to pull out your wallet.

“Don’t worry about it,” he assured you. “My treat!”

“So, so kind...” You gushed, patting his beautifully muscular back.

“I’ll get us some popcorn!”

After he purchased the popcorn, you both walked off to the screening room. Hoseok led you to the seats that he had reserved for you. You spoke as the trailers were playing but became silent when the movie finally started.

Hoseok chose a slightly cheesy but sweet romantic comedy film to watch. The story line was how a boy was helplessly in love with a girl and wasn’t sure how to confess.

“Dude,” you talked softly into Hoseok’s ear. “Can’t he just tell her straight up?”

Hoseok, surprisingly, had a different answer than you had expected.

“Not that easy,” he whispered back.

You furrowed a brow and smiled, wondering what he meant by that statement. “Oh?”

Hoseok cracked a side smile. “Maybe he’s afraid of rejection!”

“Pffffft!” You scoffed and shook your head. “It’s much better to take the chance then forever hold your peace!” You then grabbed a piece of popcorn and ate. “Or else stay in uncertainty. ForEVER,” you said, half-jokingly.

Hoseok didn’t say anything after that, and your mind somehow began to wonder what he was thinking about. Would he ever confess to you? You head with swimming with scenarios, but you brushed them off with self-doubt and continued to watch the film.

After the movie had finally ended, Hoseok drove you back home in a matter of no time.

“Well thanks again for the movie, Hoseok!” You said as you got your bag and was preparing to get off the car.

“No problem,” he smiled. “Thanks for alleviating me of my boredom!”

“No problem,” you mimicked. “I’ll see ya around!” You gleefully replied, happy to have spent the day with him.

As you went to open the car door and leave, you felt a sudden hand grab a hold of yours.

“Wait, Victoria!” He called out.

Your stomach dropped as your eyes widened like an owl; he was holding on to you. You gulped quietly and adjusted your facial expression.

With the most composure you could muster, you turned around to look at him.

“Wha- yeah?” You answered.

“I- I. well... there’s something I have to say.” He stumbled, his nerves audible in his voice.

You were intrigued, you had never seen Hoseok this way and he was even cuter when he was shy.

“Yes?” You said, as you once again became conformable in the passenger seat of the car.

“I... remember the guy in the movie?” he began.

“Yes...?” you questioned, heart racing as your head began to play tricks on you.

“I’m in a similar situation,” he said.

Your heart dropped slightly, he wouldn’t be talking about you right? No, he wouldn’t see you like that. You guys were just friends and although you felt somewhat upset, you had to feel happy for him. He clearly liked this person so much.

You stayed quiet for a couple seconds and a smile began to form on your face, trying to stay positive. As you were about to question who, he cut you off and his next words surprised you.

“You. It’s you!” he proclaimed, his cheeks becoming bright red.

Due to the shock of what had just happened, you began laughing.

“Me?!” You exclaimed as you pointed to yourself.

“Yes, you! You were the one for me,” he explained. “But I was afraid that... I wasn’t the one for you,” he trailed off, looking at the wheel of the car.

You looked away, blushing and beaming like the sun, trying to get your thoughts and feelings in order before deciding to speak. You put your hand on his shoulder, getting his attention. You could tell he was nervous by the way his eyes watched you.

“Well, you are,” you somehow managed to mumble out at him. You watch his face expression change from nervousness to happiness.

Your words made him melt faster than a Hershey bar sitting on asphalt in the middle of July in Texas.

“Hey,” he said as he grabbed your hand, starting to play with it. “Are you a cinema?” He asked, his beautiful eyes gazing into yours.

You rolled your eyes at him, ready for another cheesy pick-up line. “Why?”

“Because I could watch you forever,” he said, replicating the singer of the famous song.

#torilasuper #realsenunnie #collab #oneshot #wonho #monsta x #masterlist #drabble #fluff

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spooky-raccoon · 6 years

Text

It’s In The Evidence (Part 5)

THIS TOOK ME SO LONG TO DO AND I AM SO SORRY LIFE SUCKS

Cue the DUN DUN DUUUUN music.

Several months had passed and things had fallen into a pattern it seemed. Pennywise had kept out of my sight even though I was always investigating him. At times he would visit me in my dreams, taunting me or mocking me. My year was running up and I wasn’t sure if he would vanish at any time which was putting me on edge. My home had become covered in history papers from the pattern of missing people and death. Robert and I were doing well though. He had been talking about moving in once I was done with my research. The idea gave me butterflies and I admit I was nervous, but I was happy he was just as eager about our relationship I was.

I had come home from work that even and pulled up a book detailing businesses history. Whenever I went through a book I had the habit of skimming until something caught my eye and then read the whole book. I was sipping my hot chocolate when I noticed something. There, detailing a brewery, was Robert. There was a photograph and Robert stood in between a group of people. Slowly, I flipped the page which was a bunch of signatures. I reached over to a birthday card he had given me and stared at the signature at the bottom. My eyes glanced back and forth. They matched, to the loops, to the slashes. To everything. I looked at the year again to the business and I felt my heart skipping a beat. Robert would either be a really old man or dead.

So many thoughts began to race through my head, but I needed to control my emotions. I had learned that Pennywise would come when I was panicking, afraid, or horrified. He always appeared in my nightmares or if a scary movie was really getting to me. I really love horror gore films so that dragged a bit. I let out a heavy sigh as I settled my books back on the shelves after several more hours of research. Robert’s name had showed up several more times. He had told me that he was the only person of his family to be in Derry. The only one to decide to move to the small town and that the others were gone. I sat on my couch, elbows propped on my knees as I leaned forward and pressed my fingers to my lips as they were folded up in one another. I had to control the things I was feeling. Control was so hard at this point though. I had come to adore Robert, love him dearly. Could he really be who I thought he was? Pennywise, that damn Dancing Clown. I inhaled and exhaled a large breath to ease myself. I can’t let Pennywise know. I have to make sure Robert still thinks everything is picture perfect between the two of us. Part of me felt disgusted knowing that the person I had been making love to be a wolf in disguise. Monster in human skin. I noticed the time on the clock and headed off to bed after a shower. Part of me wish I hadn’t as it was another night with Pennywise invading my dreams. Though this time was different.

“Oh, little one.” Pennywise’s voice echoed in soft whispers followed by a single laugh. “Little one.” That echo felt as if it ran over my body, sending a shiver down my spine has a floated in the darkness. “Time to float, little one.”

Light began to pour through from different areas. I looked around and that’s when I realized they were uncovered manholes and sewer drains. My feet landed gently on the ground and I began to walk forward.

“Sweet, little one. Let me make you happy.” His words hissed next to my ears. I saw large arms coming from my sides and suddenly clasp me to a sturdy surface. I struggled against the grip and I felt my back vibrating as Pennywise chuckled. “Oh, silly girl. Silly, silly.” My head snapped back to see that I was pressed to his chest.

“What do you want from me?” I grunted as I continued to try to break free.

“You look like you need a hug is all. You’re so stressed out trying to find me, get rid of me and all.” He laughed again as he lowered his head right next to mine. “You aren’t like everyone else. You aren’t afraid of me. Everyone ignores ole Pennywise when something horrible happens but no, not you.” One of his hands turned my face to the side so I would look directly at him. I may have been dreaming but my heart was beating so fast as our faces were so close. “You’re a smart gal. A naughty gal too. There’s also something inside you that isn’t quite right.” His eyes went from a pale blue to a golden yellow. “Why not join old Pennywise? We could have so much fun together. So. Much. Fun.”

With the last word leaving his lips he pressed them to mine. My struggling stopped as I felt a surge of warmth wash over me. One of his arms stayed firmly around me, wrapped underneath my breasts. The other slid slowly to my neck. His large hands easily covered my entire throat. He began to slowly squeeze, and I stifled back a moan as he got to as tight as I loved it. I felt something hard pressing into my lower back. And then it wiggled making me gasps. Pennywise chuckled as he pulled away from my lips.

“Find me and come play. Let me give you what you desire.” His words echoed throughout the sewer as it faded away.

He vanished into thin air as I jerked myself around one final time. The lights began to fade away and soon I was left back in the dark. My feet no longer touched the ground as I began to float in nothingness. The rest of my sleep went undisturbed. I only woke up when my phone rang. It was Robert.

“Mmm hello honey.” I rolled over in my bed as I put the phone to my ear.

“Just wake up?” He softly laughed and ended it with a small sigh. “I’m gonna be coming over. With food.”

“Aw aren’t you the sweetest. Yeah, I just woke up. I’ll make sure not to look like a mess when you get here.” I giggled as I sat up in bed, flinging the blanket over me.

“You know I think you’re the most beautiful thing in this universe, even when you have fresh bedhead and dark circles.” I heard the dinging of a door opening. “I’ll see you in a bit hun. I love ya.”

“I love ya too.” I pressed the hang up button and set my phone down.

My hand rubbed my face as I tried to sort through so many emotions. Despite discovering what I did, I still loved Robert. I couldn’t help but to still imagine a future with him but I knew he wasn’t human. He wasn’t who I thought he was. A shaky breath left me as I got up from my bed. I had finally found happiness but now it felt as if it was crashing down around me. I slipped on a black maxi dress after I put on a pair of underwear and a bra. I made my way to the bathroom to make my hair and face not look like I had just woken up from hibernation. When I was done I opened the medicine cabinet to take my vitamin. I shut the door and there stood behind me in the mirror was Pennywise. I let out a sigh as I stared at him.

“What do you want?” I let annoyance and anger fill my voice but kept my mind on lock down, so he couldn’t figure out I knew the truth.

“The same thing I say every time you ask this question.” He chuckled, and I flung myself around to see him actually there behind me.

“Why the hell do you want me!?” I couldn’t help but to yell this time. I took in a deep breath as I gripped onto the sink.

“Because you are special.” His hand reached out to me, landing on the side of my face. “You’re a bit like me. There’s a bit of a monster inside you.” My eyes widened, and he let out a cackling laugh. “Oh, the things you’ve done Roxanne. Is that why you do what you do? So, you can get away with the things you do? Hmm?” His face was leaning in closer to me as his eyes turned yellow. “You aren’t innocent Roxxie. Just because you get rid of those who do evil doesn’t make you good. Especially when you strap them down, inject them with different things and experiment on them until they die slow and painful deaths.”

“They deserved it.” I managed to speak out finally. “They were murderers, sex traffickers, and other horrible things. They all deserved it. The people you kill and eat,” he had only gotten an inch away from my face, “they are innocent.”

“A creature has to eat too Roxanne.” Pennywise shrugged. “We both enjoy it though. We’re more alike than you think. Give it some thought little one.” His lips pressed into mine as he swiftly picked me up to set me on the sink. “I need a Queen and we both know you can’t kill me. Or even want to kill me.” He chuckled as he kissed me harder.

One of his large hands was gripping the back of my head while the other was wrapped around my torso. Truth me told, he didn’t have to keep me locked in place. This had become so common it seemed whenever he would show up. I wanted to fight but something deep inside me held me back. Something in me wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted whatever he wanted to give me. Wanted to be with him. The door bell rang as he pulled himself away. With a sly grin on his face he walked out the door, vanishing. Quickly I made brushed my hair again and answered the door. Robert came in with a large grin on his face while carrying a bag of Chinese food.

“Got you the usual my dear. Sorry I took so long. I stopped by the library to check out some movies for us to watch.” He held up the other bag that had the library’s logo on it. “I figured you’d like a relaxing day.”

“You’re too sweet Robert, I swear.” I giggled softly as I got plates from the kitchen.

I watched him as he set up the first movie for us to watch. I loved Robert so much and even though I knew the secret I couldn’t tear myself away from him. I wanted nothing more than a life with him but that would mean a life with Pennywise as well. A soft sigh left me as I got us drinks. Pennywise, and thus Robert, both knew my secret. I thought coming to Derry would let me run away from all the darkness I left behind but, no. Pennywise was going to remind me over and over that I too was a murderer.

@animelover130901 @jacc-daniels @hoe-for-daddywise @astrotheclown @fuckin-boiis @skaravile @dirtydaddywiseslut @ihaveaseriousclownproblem @float-me-to-the-moon @pennywisethot @smileysam13579

#pennywise fanfic #pennywise fanfiction #pennywise x character #pennywise imagaine

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castlehead · 7 years

Text

THE BATHOS OF SO FEW EYES THAT ARE UPON ME.

[DRAFT ONE] Taxing the result, and creating influence through the creation of one or two shades thrown

from somewhere that are crowned more, much more, than hearsay,

means restless making, hating the elongated course of action throwing shade

takes as a part of its embarking upon that razzle-dazzle

poetic hypnosis: really an anointment of routine, as if it were a sacred jelly, when,

all fictive, simpler achievements, fictive, for their generality -a noose around the neck

of things that got to get said well- when all the gnarly wrack, depends on too-long stale hibiscus tea,

curlicues erupting from its warmth. Too-long hibernated inspiration,

for to defend its ultimate narrow-down to dainty biases it has, here and there, in favor of some

special points of shade and sufferance go with glee to hide behind its coalition of badder energies the sake some

energy/vigor more comes along, strutting and swinging its newfangled autonomy around,

like a braggart for small victories, to slow big victories from their materializing of should, to concepts being acted upon, a shirk known

specifically by the lazy as one strategy for getting your Good Mother off your back. Its detachment, still, -and it was, indeed, an accomplishment, nay even a severely-needed one, almost forced by the

Gods- its detachment, great and grand accomplishment, from an unfortunate-long connection at the hip with reassurances of all kinds he'll

be taken car of by less-harried harpies, in their recalcitrant imagery, like flies pipping their far-flung

buzz of anhedonia anywhere, their aim to quaff a draught

of joviality from any organic time his body had, just to keep aviated and aloft the heavy norm from off of ground, usually sounded buzzingly as a sort of vaguest yearning for some asinine form of the past that did not exist, but was romanced to life and brought into the room of people anywhere in the form of a tampered-with, radioactive stench of immediate disqualification, o tragic clown held hostage by the least cruds of the day, while the plenty of the Good piles up, a spectacular and usually inevitable, crass naufrage of all his hopeful mediations of and on specific fractions of two strangers' conversation, whatever tacitly welcoming input, to him, a nod to silence himself. Oh these my petty, pretty darlings of pain.

A lozenge of a ship still quartering sailors still alive, pendentives lit, I see, is scribbled on horizon: try, oh clown, muted at the hands of his misery, to go there and cradle yourself among the diffident waves of mysterious nods at silence you see only; see them but another fledge of that horizon, imagery most boon and friend to agile thoughts that are to things among people that are said, thoughts too agile, even, for the tongue to say them, nor for the eyes to even read scrawled across the skull as more than dreamlike interpretations of some old worry, hated anachronism of the moment yet feeding all of them in there your thought-drenchingness, yet shame depriving them of tears at your own hypocritical silent assertion they should understand, oh clown of shame, as your desire not to be so lonely, anymore, anymore.

And now: the ship of fate, his fate, is disinterring focus from the woozy clouds, abrogated by the darkening gloaming, like something decided swiftly cast in shades as something undecided, a certainty somewhere yet

to be found by men of taste, popular men, sufficient in their will and quiet in their pomp. Now look, The

Fictive Poet says: it seems, The Poet says at once, That these our fraught, entangled intimations

at some wasteful, seamless rhubarb in us hath shown us its ultimatum, of grand regard, And not, no not, as too ruffled by difference,

and too long ruffled, to be a difference so different than the routine change, from difference to difference. But

The Poet defers blame for his own bland. For, he says, intoning like a clock of many years, so-to-speak, in the grandfather's house, old house: It is rather

At the hands, most likely, of an obscure enemy whose ways fawn on republican politics and

tax-cuts for the rich, and that monitor the head ape for so long as to exterminate them, achieving

only a feeling of sightless excitement at burning the spoon like a euphemism, for example, or seeing

a ghost outside for once, upon this incoherent lawn of scattered word.

[DRAFT TWO] Taxing ungratefully the perfectly good result with just a few more tests, marking it on a clinical docket where the beasts

of wanton phrase overpower the maiden of causa prima, who starts to follow that example, writes herself out of the very definition of herself as it was; all this on the list all to find

where the spot it does -is, if indeed it can, and does, ‘nuke’ -to very death- the surviving rest of any spontaneity

in the style, turned ascetic: yielding, to weakly justify the writing, these rigid-meted hairs of careful serotonin, smacked dully

gelid, like as the miles of chilly landscapes, flat surfaces for feet to walk on, made of a lake sometime in dire Winter,

dulling the unlucky reader, vibrating with starvation, as quickly as an incinerating nuke of ‘no’ by the frugal father, responding to his daughter’s passionate claim for ponies to be at Christmas.

We find, however, with adding additions, that new meanings for the maiden, heard

in echo merely before, with an extra uttering here and there, enlighten to a harsher, but, still loving, sound, and better-learnéd sound, for its

detour through the delirium of the moment to where the beasts of phrase have made

a truce with maidens, or, you know, ‘Brokered Peace’ as they say on CNN about The Foreign

Policy Things, -and this while packing away the spoils of the subjects made of echoes, revealing the burden, where it is lifted, of

these so many presiding loose ends, for so long approached as if a part of the organism the poem was: where end these fending follicles of detail: are

they the result of hunter-gathering for some uncharted context, thus, a new mode of excitement for the reader to feel disturbed in understanding better, learning better the unsaid, through these said things that shift their

weight, as if standing up from their seat on an airplane after landing, the landing square upon the strip,

transcribing the rest of what I feel is not there for it never will be there, if even replicated word-for-word, or blown in a boom to essentials in the crater, by an editing bomb, to shave what’s imitable to one single, purer shard, the gift of queenly maidens and their

truce with the loquacious beasts, that wish a content more, yet less a healing to the pome in being a too-long nightmare of one who squeezed himself already to powder in a creative, though emotionally hazard, drylands, through an ironic revelry or throwaway we see again among these burdens called a subject and a sense, all of them clues

moreover, to the very evasions they are, and that deplete the poem of its actuality! It is the tragic current of The Same

that ruins The Poet’s blood, who thinks in the language of passion as firm and fine as dirt as enough destined

in the pathos we can feel, at the waste of all this seeming in an imagery informed by some declension, proceeding beneath the mask of the words’ behavior, in other words, or, in other words, each word a symbol and attack upon what can be visioned by a mind as this, The Poet’s mind,

outside of edgy creeds or needing multiply the source that has its chatty wandering, across the sturdy paths of frozen lakes mentioned once again, both ends of the

mentioning obedient to the movement of each other as to be none less than something like the child of the very behavior of quantum entanglement of particles as stay

at their same vigil equally long, and mirror the directions of their brother, on the opposite sides of universe, but

instead, made into the mortal cardboard of time-traveling verbiage across, as it now goes, all this scour of the tundra of context and as sleets in sharp flakes the questions all the same as to what is

the true subject, for its use is known already, though not said, that is: to rise the human from their little niche, into and past the human, remaining human, and creating, sometimes with its virulent-running explosions of mistake, a new and better

argument for life, for somewhere it is hardwired, stays in place and yet, moves with its twin, who moves, but by staying in place: it will haunt our creations, and us with its perfect arch and paradox too much -without a tangle, too neat for anybody not to reckon that

some intelligent design had filled this with its own art, compacted passions with utility, ruddering frustration’s rawness behind the last mortal straw of one’s effort away from destruction, towards an ease of rationale so free of needing faith as to be forged from a scientific

delight of some reserve, into a metal worth enough as reason on its own, untampered; would we not feel obliged to have left alone the one upwind of their frustrations, and to collapse into a squawking,

futile tantrum, if at the first they were not corrupted so easily by life’s carnage, happening to them in real-time, and so then all the more

intense: I think of this, and it cements, least, some overused idea for something more serene and deft than humans could have made with definitions: an idea, to both explain and feel this collage of stuff and mirrors, stuff and atoms, the atoms that exist behind us or back-

stage if you like, and we, impoverished thespians reciting from the script of our personal circumstance: we, who exist in front of atoms, almost to be them, as if to say, I hold court in this land of flesh and

physics: you are too contrarian to fancy yourself of my material and sacrosanct: yet altogether everything is made up of its beauty, that is how we can and will graft experimental persons like as particles to the majestic sides of this box of universe, scrambling to be

justified for all its slow but mighty large accrual of mountains to our eternities, changes, seemings, and ultimatums, while an audience of atoms gasps and looks agape at gelid poverties of bastard

philosophical frost over their secret of meaning something without the meaning, the way we can’t, no matter how we try, or at least without losing the will to live: we atoms who live and march

up and down the planet, relaxing and then worried, raising our blood pressure with stress, lowering cholesterol and having kids.

We must learn that any emblem comes from a bag of emblems as would say withal its hesitating that it dwells in truth and in rhetoric as correct as truly, as accurately as any liminal hand might trace its meanings over cornfed,

human principles: and yet that is the system whereby we receive the fire enough under our ass to not continue not, but work through sleep and so

revive yourself, regroup and brace for challenge after challenge without knowing what exactly you are after- in committing to the lovely bitch of life.

I who am without self, or a name, could be the higher narrator of this well-enough design of Pome, or be just the shaping hands of they who

speak expressions through my sieve into convictions for the human race to misinterpret and misread. A text that is I am, a being of word.

I am against what cause these new sources of influence

over The poet, that drylands, that led The Poet through them, but implying this an inevitable rite,

as if in any case, they had to to get his creation of one or two shades thrown to the beastly spirit, after the test that might just naysay its certainty of being needed

in the first place, and so then only leading to environ with sullying the very focal-force The Poet uses, to compare the moment with realities askance and lean, and of strained

strings of conflict through each part of them, all of them, straining

from somewhere that are crowned the more, much more, than hearsay,