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 FRAGMENTS, kibbles n' bits on nothing in particular
knox
 Posted: Feb 26 2016, 12:05 AM
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basically a ghost
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_ "No No Oh no."


Now that he cups her soft, wholesome flesh in his hands he means to devour her. He is greedy. His lips ski from her shoulders to her collarbone to pasture in the nape of her neck. He consumes with his hands, thumbing her ribs, dipping his index finger into her naval, feating on the sinew that tauten in her belly and her back. When he can work up the nerve_ and the appetite_ he presses his palm against the warm mound between her thighs as though testing a cake for doneness, or kneading the batter. He's hungry, wretched, in want of a taste. In need. He nips, he pushes, against her, and with her, and for her.

He shouldn't. He held her as a baby. She was the bundle in his lap, a fold in a shared genome, and now he is grazing the lips that nursed on his fingers when they were small, drinking her with that which have brushed upon each bud of her breasts.

He shouldn't. He groans, bemoans his hungriness. Breathless, wanton, he grunts softly: "No."

And "oh," and a medley of sounds that mark a good appetite, a thirst to satiate, an eager mouth to be fostered, that he fills with morsels of she.

100 words about adrian

“Watch.”

Adrian pulls his arm back and plunges his bare hand into the pot of boiling water. Goodbye anesthesia! For a fleeting moment he has a recollection of what it’s like to experience physical suffering. He can feel the surge of the burn shoot up his fingertips. He squeezes his eyes shut and he sees spiraling patches of red and yellow. He squeezes his eyes shut and he says, “this is when I really feel it.” And when he opens them, he pulls his hand out of the steaming macaroni, and he sees ribbons of his flesh bobbing alongside it.

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knox
 Posted: Mar 4 2016, 06:04 PM
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basically a ghost
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Roosting on a hillside stippled grey and white by a cluster of spacecraft, the Millenium Falcon is at once sovereign and unimportant. She seems to be right at home among the transports and x-wings in her midst despite all the years she has on them and they, in turn, seem to gravitate to her. In the glint of their windshields they are whispering. Listening. Tell us your story, Falcon. What have you seen? Where have you been?


img.cred: https://dribbble.com/shots/1827412-Millennium-Falcon
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knox
 Posted: Mar 10 2016, 10:19 AM
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basically a ghost
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Max and how being invisible kind of sucks


Max snorts.

“Suit yourself.”

He puts the pack back in his breast pocket. His face goes out like a light bulb then, all the brightness of his skin dulling out. Brick lining comes through where his nose used to be, showing a flash of bone underneath, the curves of his eye sockets, and the ivory shoots of teeth coming in behind his lips. The muscles tensing in his neck pare down to the nerve endings in his spinal cord. When he grits his teeth, frayed lines of red in the pocket of his skull light up. Eventually that goes, too. Now he’s just some flannel and a pair of jeans. A cigarette going up and down. A swirl of smoke follows a corkscrew path from the see-through tunnel coming out of his shirt collar and back out into the air.

~


He once met a would-be actress who saw through a compound eye with thousands of reflectors the way a fly does. Even with two opaque headlights for peepers, she was a real beauty. With her limber, Barbie gams, she’d have looked like any other A list celebrity, but those eyes. The press ate them up. Those eyes would have graced a hundred, thousand screens across the globe. At Cannes, in New York, in Venice. Then one day, she steps out of a yellow-cab, and while she’s delicately maneuvering around the cracks in the cobblestone, teetering in her pin-thin stilettos, she gets struck down by a tour bus draped with a placard of her new cover for The Squeeze. Without retinas, she couldn’t focus on more than a few yards at a time. She never could have seen her own face charging at her down Great White Way.

Those eyes got her in the end.

In other words: a benign tumor is still a tumor.

~

Clemont had been there, though. He was the one who had all the arrangements made. Matthew had been there too, in his own way. He provided the coffee on long nights and covered his ass. Especially when Max’s tumor, which began at his mid-brain, spread down his nervous system and through his glands.

The thing is greedy, whatever it is. A tumor—a mutation. A gift, as Clemont called it.

Looking at Matthew, Max wonders what this reunion would be like if they were two ordinary men. Two Joe Schmoes going for coffee at a diner or splitting the bill at some overpriced, dimly lit beer garden where the brew list is written out in haiku. Older men, getting older, gossiping about married friends, how much The Hills has changed, one of them thinking about getting a dog.

Max coughs. Or maybe laughs.

“Where’re you staying?” He asks.


~

It’s not often that Matthew has less to say than him. When it does happen, it’s disconcerting, even for a man who lives his life in comfortable quietude.

For those few moments without words, Max twists his cigarette into the gravel until the cherry sputters and dies. He tosses it into the alleyway and as he watches it tumble into the dark he ponders their last meeting as young men. They were standing in the sun at Gravesend Cemetery, their collars up against the wind, listening to Clemont’s eulogy, and they hadn’t had a damn clue about any of it; death, change, time and how little of it they had. Getting comfortable.
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knox
 Posted: Mar 16 2016, 09:48 AM
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basically a ghost
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A terrible, old voice, echoing in the dark, asking him his name. Like silverware chinking together, the legs of a chair being dragged across the floor, the voice screeches. The voice grates in Mathias’ ears, inside his head.

“Boy,” it says, creaking, scraping against his eardrums. “Are you listening?”

Mathias can’t move. He stands, frozen, with his eyes plastered to the wall in front of him.

“Hey you,” it rasps, “you feelin’ anything?” When it groans, its voice is an iron gate screaming shut, beat-up, and hanging off its hinges. Ready to give up.

“I’m talkin’ to you, boy,” the voice says. “When somebody talks to you, you pay attention. Where’s your manners?” It putters like a broken fan-belt. “What'd you lose them on the way in?”

“What’re you looking at the wall for?” It croaks. “I’m up here.”

Mathias’ eyes dart down, his eyelashes flutter, pointing at the floor. He tries to think of how Neo would react if there was a monster in his closet. What would Sarah Connor do? What would Deathstalker say? He imagines how RoboCop would handle this, and looking up, he glares straight on into the dark, with his fists held out in front of him. Then his stomach flip flops and drops into his bladder. He can make out a shape, a shadow darker than a pitch-black, starless sky. The shape is darker than deep space, darker than a black-hole, and kind of fuzzy, like TV snow. The shadow’s static outline moves softly, creeps along the wall. Then the floor. The ceiling, too.

“Matt-baby, I'm everywhere.”

Suddenly, Mathias wishes, really, really wishes, he still had his light saber. Our hero is weaponless, he thinks. Without the blade of his sword, glowing blue and valiant in the dismal bowels of his closet, he is defenseless against the monster lurking in the shadows. Before long, the worse-thing will rear its ugly head, and Mad Matt will be swallowed up by a pitch-black chink in the wall, spiraling out of existence.

His father will cry. His mother will wish she had spent more time with him, her first-born. His brother will wish he wasn't such a snot nosed little brat. They’ll give him a burial befitting of a great hero. The beautiful red, white, n' blue will drape across his casket like a firecracker popsicle. Soldiers will salute his spirit. The president might even make a speech. His parents will stand somewhere off stage-- not too far away-- just close enough to be picked up by the TV broadcast camera lens. Those men in dark suits, off-camera, they’ll be C.I.A agents. Their eyes will be moist behind their tinted sunglasses.

The thing, that Big Bad in the dark, it quakes. It shivers and spits.

“Mathias,” it whines. “Don't go there. I'm warning you now, as a friend.”

The voice grows in his head. It reminds him.

“W-what?” Mathias’ voice is small. “How did you get in here?”And he’s shaking again. And his heart is knocking around in his rib cage like a small bird.

“H-how did you get out?” He whispers, wringing his hands together. Feeling each one of his fingers go cold.

The shape stops trembling. The shadow, it grows wide. It’s a big black grin against the dark.

“I can go wherever I wanna go as long as you’re with me.”
The shadow bristles.

“Now put ‘er there,” it adds with a laugh, the wub-wub sound of a flexible hand saw bending back and forth.

“Come on,” it chortles in its rusty-hinge voice. “Be a pal.”

Up shoots a black hand. Some of its fingers are shorter or longer than the others. It reaches for him with its too many fingers. Its wrists too wide for its narrow, twig appendages. It grabs at Mathias who darts back, hitting his back against the wall. Poor kid. All that effort he put into being brave, into emulating Gandalf The White and Mad Max and Han Solo. All that, and his pants still go warm and sticky with urine. He still feels driblets running down his legs, down the seams of his yellow NFL pajamas.

The Big Bad laughs.

“You’re a good sport, kid.”
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knox
 Posted: Mar 18 2016, 03:24 PM
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basically a ghost
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In which Sili turns the transmission off on Prince Zep not once but twice

It’s always the same. Vasilisa wakes up in the constrained quarters of her tiny slipper scared out of her wits that she’s left the reflectors down. She jolts to the sound of her receiver beeping- to numbers flashing by in green on her transmitter screen. Lately, she’s taken to hiding in the outskirts of the Dark Cluster where she knows Prince Zep’s trackers will be unable to probe.

It’s almost empty in the dark galaxy. Sparse assemblages of orbs with luminous, worm-like tendrils flash feebly, swimming along in a tenuous stream of gas. There is no room for stars in the Dark Cluster. There are no planets and there is no light. The xacorallia ebb and flow in the interstellar dust. Their dimly lustering tendrils reach out, gathering each other up into small hordes. More of them appear, flickering on like bulbs, and they all scurry to cling onto the slipper as it hangs undetectable in one of the Dark Cluster’s outstretched arms. Vasilisa turns in the cockpit and her bare feet leave black slashes on the dashboard. She brushes a long, ebony forefinger against the transmitter screen and Prince Zep’s perpetually grinning face appears.

“Look at that,” she yawns. “You’re still there.” Almost every time she wakes up and hits the frontal transmitter, Prince Zep is on the other side grinning his skeleton grin and wringing his bony, wyght fingers together.

“I couldn’t leave you for but a moment while you reset.”

Vasilisa sighs and peers into the transmitter. Prince Zep’s ice-blue eyes light up, glowing where they are embedded deep in his mask-like face.

“Are you ready to come home?” Prince Zep always asks.

“Home?” She snorts, thinking of the Prince’s cold, metal citadel. She and Zep have two very different ideas of home.

“No,” is Vasilisa’s answer, every single time.

“I thought you might say that,” Prince Zep says cheerfully.

“Oh really? What gave me away?”

Vasilisa presses ignition and smiles sweetly at Prince Zep’s taut, white skull. Then she clips off the transmission.

~

The engine begins to sputter with only two hops to go. Vasilisa cusses and knocks a tight, ebony fist against the dashboard. “Of all the times,” she grumbles, pressing ignition repeatedly in hopes that it will fire up just enough to get her a little farther away.

In her rearview transmitter she can spot Prince Zep’s pilots trailing her. "Perfect."

Her reflectors flickered off hours ago in the middle of an asteroid field some odd 400,000 miles between two terrenes and they’ve been inching along behind her ever since. Vasilisa glares at the trooper ships as they approach.

The frontal transmitter boops with the sound of a message coming in. Flourescent green numbers flash across the screen. Without a second thought, Vasilisa gives the transmitter a light punch and cries, “Zep! What?”

Prince Zep's smile never falters.

“We’ve located you,” he says pleasantly. “My citadel is one hop away. We’re preparing the transporter.”

“Don’t you dare,” Vasilisa hisses, on the verge of tears.

Prince Zep’s imperishable grin does not mask his unease.

“You are distressed!” He says quietly. “Why? I miss you.”

He pauses.

“Ten hops is a long time to be traveling.”

“I know,” Vasilisa snaps. "Don't be a pain in the ass."

She bristles for a minute, and after a breath she utters, “I miss you too. Kind of. Mostly.” She says so softly so he knows she means it.

Prince Zep’s insect eyes light up with hope. “Then you will come back!”

He yips and Vasilisa’s face hardens at the sound.

“You don't know what love is,” she grumbles, and clips off the transmission.
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knox
 Posted: Apr 23 2016, 02:06 PM
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basically a ghost
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VALERIE

You start to grow into your own body. You have boobs now or your balls drop or something. You have all the things that come with boobs suddenly sprouting on that bare canvas of skin you call a chest. Or your balls doing whatever balls do at that age. I wouldn’t know, I’m a girl. But yeah. So you have boobs now, in some fashion. Maybe they haven’t quite reached their full potential yet, but they’re there, and that’s enough. You get to be a kid and have all of those things you saw in movies when you were growing up; lacy training bras; parties where everyone chokes down Smirnoff ice; semi-permanent hair-dye; MDMA; that kind of stuff. Never mind that you still secretly play with Bratz Dolls or Beanie Babies or whatever—there are boys now. Or maybe you’re interested in other girls. Either way, suddenly we’re all knocking our braces together and feeling each other up. You have baby boobs. You’re still playing with kids toys even as you get to explore all the happening things teenyboppers do on TV. Sure, it’s a little weird in the rift between “child” and “young adult” or however the new marketing brands it, but it’s pretty good times. Until you get your first period, that is. You don’t know it yet, but your boobs, they stop growing. You will have full-grown breasts. Whether they look like it to you or not, that’s it. You’re done. Then all the things that come with boobs suddenly seem a lot less fun. These things are called responsibilities. Your parents will yell at you about those like you were expected to have known about them this entire time. And they weigh on you. Sometimes your boobs feel heavy. Sometimes you have the urge to press them down, make them go away. You wake up in the middle of the night and find yourself pushing on them. This can happen to you early as 13, like it did for me: You pressing down your tits, trying to make them flat like when you were a kid. You’re trying to go back.
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