skrev

branches

They drip from the branches. Those clear balls of liquid. The water. It just drips and drips. And the branches stretch and stretch. They never end. And then I run. I try to run to the end of the branches. To where there’s no water. But that just isn’t going to happen. The branches scratch and itch. They just reach out as if to hold on. To never let go, to keep you there forever. Finally, I collapse. The drops and the branches and the scratches. We become one. I lay motionless on the floor.

Apr. 08th, 2012 - 2 years ago - Reblog - 0 Notes
Tagged: #oneword #ew bad 

curse

curse this curse that, it’as always like that. She tries everyday to lift it, but never does she succeed. Too strong, she too weak. And then it fails and fails and she fails and then what? She wonders.

Feb. 20th, 2012 - 2 years ago - Reblog - 1 Notes
Tagged: #oneword #curse 

Riots, WorD

The fucking riots. All over. I you walked into town like a day today, it would be fairly easy to see why I didn’t like living here. Always the same fucking thing. Always.

People. These people who didn’t like living here but yet had nowhere else to go. No where to go. Because without money, there is nothing. And it shouldn’t be like that but it is. As much as we don’t like it, it is. And that’s how the riots started. How people grew tired. So tired of the system that they began to cheat. They stole. They tried not to, but it became the only way they could survive. No money equals no food. No food equals no health. No health equals no life. And so the stores slowly lost their products. And people slowly lost their sense of security. And I watched it all. I could tell you who was doing what and who was not doing what.

It’s remarkable, everything humans do to try and feel adequate. They never feel truly adequate though. No matter how much money or how much food or how much technology or good or anything humans have, there is never a feeling of adequacy. Never. Always jealousy. Always the drive to move forward. But sometimes, no matter how much people want to move forward, there is nothing to move forward to. Because everything is stagnating, because everything is rotting and everything is held by few. A few elite. And the people grow tired. And the cities convert into something that is almost unimaginable. Riots. Those uprising of people that start off peacefully. But it climbs and it becomes more. This is the story of Anne. She grew up in a land where riots were the norm.Where there was no word for riots, it was simply called life.

She lived in a little house off in a hill about 20 minutes, walking, from the city center. It was a nice town, except for the people who were always in front of the central building. Everyday, someone would be announced dead right there. You lived life as if it was the last day. Because more likely than not, it was. it was a brutal life. Staying home and doing nothing until it was quiet enough outside that it was safe to walk to a little store and buy just enough food to last for two day. There was never enough money for more. There was not enough time to risk buying less. Never.

In this little town people talked about death as if it was the norm. And it is, think, you die, your parents die, your sibling, if you have any, die, your pets die and your teachers and your fiends die. Everybody dies. But its seen as a taboo. A scary mysterious thing to be feared and avoided. But for Anne it wasn’t. It was just a fact of life that everyone knew and accepted and they faced it everyday. Most brothers were gone. Most Faathers were gone, too, if the wrong words were heard in forn tof the capital building, you were sure to be gone within a couple of days.

Anne worked everyday in the house. She repaired clothes that would rarely be seen. She spent hours upon hours trying to perfect the bust of a dress that had been worn to about 9 funerals. This dress was to be worn to a last funeral. The funeral of the owner. It was a sad thing, sure, but it happened often enough. Bury the dead in their best oufit. Most commonly that outfit was the thing that they had work to other special occasions, sometimes those occasions were funerals. This lady, Miss Lynn, was dead because she defied Rene. He was a cruel thing. One of the people against the riots, because the riots were against him. It was fascinating to watch, really. She stood in front of him and said something about not wanting him as a ruler, because he was greedy and heartless. With just a flick of his hand, a soldier shot her from behind. She flinched a bit, her hands fell, and she seemed to look down, just before she crumpled to the floor. Then she was dead. Easy as a flick of a hand.

There were kids there. Kids who didn’t wink at the shot. They were so used to the sound. Why would they flinch? It was normal, they had shot some themselves already. They had heard more. They were there to observe what was happening. Because in a few years, they would be the ones doing the shooting, a few of them would be the ones doing the talking and the dying.

A cruel world.

Oct. 29th, 2011 - 2 years ago - Reblog - 2 Notes
Tagged: #mwr #word vomit 

He’s so out there. It doesn’t matter. He did not deserve it. He still does not deserve it. His radical thoughts, his ideas that lie out of our minds, out of our comfort box, they’re not deserving of this harsh a punishment. No, I want to help, I can’t. Let me. Let me!

Oct. 23rd, 2011 - 2 years ago - Reblog - 13 Notes
Tagged: #oneword #radical 

Shadows

They’re everywhere. They move with the sun, they move with you. Check behind you, check again. Is it there? Did it move? Again, check again. And again and again. Why? They don’t like it. It scares them. It should scare you, too. They move, with you, with the sun, by themselves. They search and search, but rarely do they find. They never find. They don’t really know what they’re searching for. But be careful, anyways. It might be in you. They might be looking for you. Check, check for the shadow. By your side, in front, behind. Did it move? Walk down the street - keep an eye out, check and check. You’ll catch it, eventually. Be careful, be careful. And look, always look. Always check and check again.  

Oct. 22nd, 2011 - 2 years ago - Reblog - 4 Notes
Tagged: #quickwr #writing 

Bones and skin

gemalt:

Write about the color of hunger-

So frail.

So thin.

Bones and skin.

It was unfair. He, he who was at no fault had to suffer. The hunger, the despair. It was maddening. It had been days. He wanted it. He couldn’t touch it. He saw it, but it was out of reach. He was left to die.  As much as he wanted, he couldn’t. So frail. So weak. So thin. Just on the other side, right there, mocking him. Torturing him - the smiles of strangers digging it in. But no, he was no allowed to get close. No, for bones and skin was what he was to be, bones and skin and desire. Until it caught up to him, and all that was left was a corpse, bones and skin.

Oct. 22nd, 2011 - 2 years ago - Reblog - 7 Notes
Tagged: #quickwr